


Hot in Here

by OtherWorldsIveLivedIn



Series: OtherWorldsIveLivedIn COC2020 [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: A love letter to 90s/00s R&B, Baz loves being a grinch, Canon Compliant, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, College/University, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, I based this on my uni halls, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Party, Post-Canon, Simon Snow CAN dance people!, Songfic, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Uni Christmas Party, University, i guess?, tacky Christmas decor, thirst trap Simon, thirsty Baz, yes it was trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn
Summary: CARRY ON COUNTDOWN, DAY 28 - PARTYSimon Snow can’t dance.At least, that’s what I thought.This fic is pure self-indulgence over the fact that 90s/00s R&B is The Best genre to go dancing to 👌 and my all time favourite HC that Simon can'tballroomdance, but that boy got moves and I will die on this hill.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: OtherWorldsIveLivedIn COC2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030872
Comments: 22
Kudos: 93
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	Hot in Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xivz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/gifts).



> A Christmas gift for my wonderful friend [Xivz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz), who I love with every single chamber of my heart 😍
> 
> And thank you to [TwoKisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokisses/pseuds/twokisses) for beta’ing Simon being an absolue thirst trap.
> 
> TW: it’s a uni party, so there’s mentions of alcohol and a brief mention of hazing in the context of how Simon won’t stand for that shit.

** Baz**

Simon Snow can’t dance.

I’ve tried to teach him many times over the past year—Bunce and I both, actually—but it’s no use. He can’t remember the steps, he doesn’t understand the timing, and he’s the only person I know who can never seem to follow someone else’s lead. (That shouldn’t surprise me, really. This is Simon Snow we’re talking about. He’s as stubborn as a mule.) 

So no, Simon Snow can’t dance.

At least, that’s what I thought.

* * *

Simon has been doing a lot better recently; he’s committed to therapy this time and we’re both committed to talking about the hard stuff—even if it does make us want to tear each other’s heads off half the time. (And cry the other half.)

We’re getting there; learning how to be _us._

Getting better, for him, also meant going back to university… and then, one month ago, joining the rugby society. (I think it’s to make him feel closer to his mum, even if he hasn’t said it yet.)

As anybody who has suffered through university in the UK knows, rugby societies indulge in parties and bathe in alcohol.

Snow’s fluctuations in mood means he suffers from much more than your average hangover if he drinks too much, and after his first experience of hazing—where I had to extract a full fish from the depths of Simon’s trousers when I found him passed out on the kitchen floor—he was very firm that he wouldn’t be taking part in any more of their barbarism. I was so proud of him for that. (So proud, in fact, that I treated him to a roleplay evening of his choice.) (Okay, so maybe it was a treat for me, too.)

That was three weeks ago and, surprisingly, they’re still inviting him to training and parties. No doubt because everyone loves Simon. (How could you not? He’s as good-natured as a puppy, and just as disarming.)

December rolled around and Bunce and I did our best to avoid any and all Christmas party invitations from our classmates. Snow, on the other hand, went around _looking._

“It might be nice, Baz,” he’d told me, at least a thousand times.

“I’d rather be set alight, Snow,” I'd responded, a thousand more.

But December the 18th has rolled around and Snow’s en route to his fourth event; because of course Snow has been invited to more than one Christmas party. He’d make friends with a fucking plant if you left him alone with it for longer than two minutes. 

He’s still a little anxious in social situations by himself, so we eventually agreed we’d go with him. The Normal took the first two, Bunce the third, and so here I am, laying down my dignity to take the fourth.

I didn’t exactly want to. An evening surrounded by drunk lads in some disgusting student hovel sounded dire. But the Normal and Bunce had tickets to a show, so it’s not like I had any other choice. Plus—even though he is a lot better this year than he was the last—Simon wanting to go out and _do things_ and well, just generally being off of the sofa, is something Bunce and I agreed we would do our best to encourage.

So here I am, bundled into my car when I’d rather be bundled up in their living room, dressed in my “best Christmas attire” at the behest of Snow. (A suit, of course. If he was expecting a foul Christmas jumper then he has another thing coming.)

I follow my irritatingly perky satnav to the student halls address Snow gave me and park outside what looks like a gated off community. Loud noises are streaming from open windows—deafening music, cackling laughter, screeching voices. Two groups are arguing on the pavement while another group jeers from the sidelines and I’m honestly not certain if the gates are to keep people out or to keep these people _in._

I hide the jag with a **There’s nothing to see here** because I don’t trust these vandals not to drape themselves over it while they pose for photos. (Twice that’s happened, and Snow will never let me live it down if it happens a third.)

I spell open Dante’s Gateway to Hell and make my way over to a block labelled _Duddon,_ where another group of people wearing reindeer antlers spill out of a red door; cans in hand, beer dripping onto their jeans. Crowley, do these people always travel in packs? What even is the collective noun for rowdy students? A disorder of drunkards? A riot of ruffians?

Anyway, whatever they are, I keep my head held high as I stride over to the door. These people can smell fear.

They each give me a once over as I approach and one opens her mouth before her friend jabs her in the side with an elbow. I ignore them and catch the door before it latches shut.

Snow’s text message tells me it’s flat 309 so I climb the stairs to the third floor, dodging wayward pizza boxes and trays of half-eaten kebabs (revolting); all the while cursing that I fell in love with an idiot who would rather be here right now than watching Pride and Prejudice on the sofa, with me.

I knock twice on the door loudly before a girl in a sequined crop top and high-waisted denim shorts answers, plastic wine glass in hand. She tilts her head at me, running her eyes down my body with a smirk and I meet her gaze with a raised eyebrow when she eventually makes her way back up to my face.

She smiles at me coquettishly and I decide I’m done with this foul interaction, so I curl my lip at her. 

A thick-set guy in a cheap Santa outfit appears from the doorway to her left as she blinks at me in shock.

“Oh hey!” he starts, wrapping his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Are you Simon’s boyfriend? He said you’d be kitted out in full suit.”

“It’s Basilton,” I tell him. And then offer him a polite smile as an afterthought.

I really should have talked Snow into meeting me downstairs; Merlin knows I’m no good with awkward introductions. I’m not exactly the most welcoming of people.

“Right,” he says, with a lopsided grin that I suspect is more due to the alcohol than happiness to meet me. “Well he’s back in the nest, doin’ his thing so. C’mon, I’ll take ya.”

No part of me wants to enter a room entitled “The Nest” but I follow him anyway. If an anxious Snow can feel comfortable “doing his thing” here, then I suppose it can’t be _too_ bad.

I follow Smart Price Santa down a hallway clad in decorations that were likely pilfered from Poundland. Garish red and gold foil garlands line the ceiling and a horrific blowup snow-globe marks the bend of the corridor at one end. I think I actually spot Christmas-themed curtains framing the window and I almost turn around and go home.

Open doors to my left and right lead into various unkempt, crudely-decorated bedrooms, where partygoers are smoking, drinking and otherwise preoccupied by each other’s mouths. Surprisingly, a few tasteful wreaths hang from their doors.

We follow the corridor round to the left, where it opens up into what I presume passes for their open plan living and kitchen area in the harsh light of day. I squint at the onslaught of Christmas string lights moving through their strobing phase to see that, currently, the room is decked out like a council-funded Christmas grotto.

Artificial snow blankets line the walls and blowup Santa Clauses of various sizes have laid claim to most of the seating area. A miniature fir tree decorated with bottle caps and beer coasters leans drunkenly to one side on a tiny round table.

Party food and various assortments of alcohol and mixers are spread over a tinsel-covered counter space that separates off the kitchen, where a man wearing a Mrs Claus outfit is stood in front of a laptop. I assume he must be the “DJ” then. Crowley.

“There’s your fella,” Bargain Claus tells me, pointing to the far side of the room where two floor-to-ceiling windows open up onto the courtyard below.

I barely register him patting me on the back and directing the girl over to the food table, because I’m frozen in shock. 

Snow is wearing a Grinch face t-shirt, bright green furry slip-ons over his shoes and a Santa hat; but my brain doesn’t have the capacity to be embarrassed over his ridiculous ensemble, because I’m struck dumb by Snow “doing his thing” on what could barely be described as a dancefloor.

A song I recognise from his shower playlist is blaring through the speakers, and Simon is not holding back.

His hips sway from right to left and the movement flows through his chest as he rolls his torso along in time to the beat, the words _‘It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes’_ blasting through the speakers.

The singer is not wrong. I’m feeling a lot warmer than when I came in. (My trousers are also decidedly more tight.)

Snow’s ridiculous t-shirt is stretched tight across his chest as he drags his hands from his waist up his body, imitating the removal of his top as the chorus ends with _‘I want to take my clothes off.’_

Morgana, is this how he dances to this song in the shower? _Why has he never invited me along?_

The situation in my trousers isn’t helped by Snow mouthing along to the words as the chorus repeats itself and he throws in a pornographic hip roll for good measure. I’m reminded of just how dirty his words can be in the heat of the moment when he moves his hips like that against me.

I swallow roughly—even though my mouth is completely dry—as he pops his chest in time to the _‘uh uh’s’_ that follow. The song fades out and I’m left wondering what the fuck just happened…

I watch from the wall as Simon laughs along with his friends, patting a few of them on the back before pulling his mobile out of his pocket. Another song floods through the speakers and Snow shouts, “Yesss!” along with at least fifteen others in the room. _(_ _A herd of hooligans?)_

The words ‘ _my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard’_ fill the room and I can tell I’ve once again lost Snow to the beat.

Crowley, who thought I’d ever be saying _that_ sentence?

Snow has never been able to dance. He _begs_ me not to make him dance at events. He even made me swear it with magic last time, so I couldn’t trick him into it with the promise of sexual favours. (I love to dance, so sue me.)

But here he is, rolling his body as the singer tells everyone to _‘warm it up’,_ and I have to loosen my tie a little because _yes,_ I’m very fucking warm right now.

I mean, I knew Snow could move his hips, but he has actual _rhythm._

I’m seriously debating making a break for it when Snow mouths the words _‘then he's picked up your scent’,_ because it’s too on the nose, but then the enticing routine causes him to turn in my direction.

His sultry expression morphs into delight and he bounds over to me as quickly as he can, given he’s wearing bloody size-twelve Grinch feet. He almost goes flying at least twice and I smile involuntarily over how cute it is. (I’m disgusted with myself.)

“Baz!” he shouts, barrelling straight into my chest and wrapping his arms around me. I drop a kiss on top of his head and he pulls back to place his hands on the sides of my neck; my skin tingles from his touch.

He leans in to give me a deep kiss—which does nothing to temper the heat I’m feeling—and I force myself to pull back when I notice his hands eventually drifting down towards my arse. (He _has_ to know what he’s doing to me.)

He smirks at me suggestively and I step back properly then, narrowly avoiding another ten minutes of snogging his gorgeous face off. (It’s a very close call.)

“Dancing?” I ask, letting my hair fall forward and raising my eyebrow at him, because I know it gets him going and I can be just as much of a tease as Snow, if not more.

“Wha’?” he asks, clearly distracted.

“I thought you didn’t dance?” I accuse, leaning back as he moves in to kiss me again. “In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me you’d rather battle a horde of harpies than step foot on one more dance floor.”

“But this isn’t dancing though, is it, Baz?” He furrows his eyebrows at me and pouts a little in his confusion. _(I want to eat him.)_ “It’s just feeling the music and- well. _Moving."_

“Snow, you’re literally describing the verb: to dance.”

“ _Well,_ ” he grabs my hand, his devilish smirk making another appearance, “would _you_ like _to dance_?”

I roll my eyes at him. (Only one of us can be the king of wordplay, and I won’t let him think he’s won any points.) 

“That was awful, Snow. But yes, I suppose I could accompany you.”

He rolls his eyes at me this time, dragging me across the room to the makeshift dance floor.

I’m scared to admit that I feel a little nervous dancing around all these people. I’m an excellent ballroom dancer—I’ve known how to Quickstep since I was six years old—but dancing in a club is decidedly more… loose. (Not that this Christmas catastrophe could ever be described as a ‘club’.)

I won’t admit to any of that out loud, but I think Snow can sense my hesitance. He pulls me against him and whispers, “It’s just us, yeah?”

I open my mouth to tell him _no,_ it’s not just us; it’s at least fifteen other people, all of whom could keep up with Snow’s grinding with no problem. But Morgana must be looking out for me, because just then the song changes and a familiar voice fills the speakers,

_‘When the snowman brings the snow, well he just might like to know…’_

Everybody cheers and Simon grins at me widely, teeth on full display, as he lifts off his Santa hat and shoves it down onto my head.

“Crowley, Snow!” I snap, but he just laughs at me, rearranging some of the hair around my face so it’s no longer in my eyes.

Then he winks at me, giving me a kiss on the cheek before purring, "You make a crackin’ Santa, Baz,” lewdly in my ear.

By the grace of Merlin, this man is going to kill me.

He throws an arm over my shoulder, making us both sway as the whole room erupts into the familiar chorus of _‘Oh well I wish it could be Christmas everyday’_ and I watch as the Asda-price string lights flash in his hat hair. 

I grab the side of his face, turning his head to catch him in a kiss. It’s messy, because he continues singing _‘let the bells ring out for Christmas’_ against my lips, and I chuckle at how ridiculous this man of mine is. (How perfect.)

I wrap my arm around his waist and join in for the next verse.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


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